


Cradle

by macaronigrille



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Blood Loss, Brief Suicide Reference, Chronic Pain, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Isolation, M/M, Pain tolerance, Peter is in college, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Violence, Wade Has Issues, Whump, asking for help, obligatory rooftop tacos, peter's a millenial, poor coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macaronigrille/pseuds/macaronigrille
Summary: Peter’s encounters with Deadpool are initially only fleeting. He doesn’t know much about him, simply that he’s a trained mercenary for hire who’s nearly impossible to kill.Impossible to kill, maybe. But as Peter spends more time with Wade, he realizes that Wade is not unbreakable. From broken fingers to head injuries, Peter teaches Wade how to be cared for, and Wade returns the favor when Peter needs him most.(Or: 5 times that Peter helped Wade with his healing factor, and one time that Wade returned the favor.)
Relationships: Peter Parker & Wade Wilson, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Spideypool
Comments: 30
Kudos: 888
Collections: Avidreaders Spiderman completed faves





	Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! I'm honored to have participated in 2020's SpideyPool Big Bang! This fic is in collaboration with the lovely nonexistenz, who you can find on both [tumblr](https://nonexistenz.tumblr.com/) and [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonexistenz/pseuds/Nonexistenz). She is so damn talented. Even if you hate this fic, please do yourself a favor and check our her art.
> 
> Also I'd like to thank my beta reader HanukoYoukai, who you can also find on on [tumblr](https://hanuko.tumblr.com/) and [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HanukoYoukai/pseuds/HanukoYoukai). Her notes were really helpful and she helped me to make this fic what it is now. I'e literally never had a beta reader before and it was the best first experience I could have asked for :)
> 
> Lastly, warnings include language, very graphic violence, and depending on how you interpret things, a mild reference to a suicide attempt. Read at your own risk!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Enjoy.




Peter knew who Deadpool was. He was a legend, but a popular one. He knew he wore a suit that looked a little too much like his own. He knew about his lewd jokes, and the Mexican food, and his comments about Spider-man’s ass, and his reputation as a shithole. (When you talk as much as Deadpool does, you get a lot of talk back). Some people said that he was ruthless and cold, while others swore that he was unpredictably kind. 

More hushed were the rumors about his face, mottled skin with pockmarks decorating every inch that you could see. Like the man himself, these tended to be the most exaggerated of everything he’d heard. It was like the game of telephone; the more time went on, the worse the stories got. _Disgusting_ evolved into _vile_ and _repugnant._ A heaviness settled in the air whenever it was mentioned, like the man himself would come out of a cloud and smite whoever had the balls to talk shit. The more Peter got to know Deadpool, the less crazy this so-called irrational fear seemed to be.

Peter just knew him as Wade. Because that’s who he was, and that’s all you could say to describe him. Everything that he heard was true, but none of it was, and he’d grown kind of tired trying to put him in a box. As much as his scientific brain tried to categorize him, he’d come no closer, and that was okay. Wade was Wade. That’s all he needed to know.

Their friendship begins with small encounters. Peter follows a thief back to his other nasty cronies and Deadpool steps in just before him. It’s violent and it’s nothing that Peter hasn’t seen but the blood stuns him a little bit more than usual. He quickly elects to leave before they can talk, but he knows that Wade catches a glimpse of him swinging away.

The next time, Peter’s on top of a building during a patrol when he spots him. It’s a little bit better this time around because he’s in control now; the height gives him power, makes him feel less vulnerable when he’s out of reach. He cocks his head and watches Wade interrogate a man he’s got pressed up against a building in an alley. Now that he has time to think, he chooses to admire the sound of his voice through the wind and the sound of city pigeons. It’s deep and weird in a way he can’t really explain. Then a scream echoes up towards Peter and he looks away before he sees. Goddamn.

When they first talk, it’s after one of the longest days he’s had in a long time. He shows up right after organic biology to fight some weird ninjas and turns out, Deadpool’s here too, and Peter just accepts that _this might as well happen today_ . They both don’t shut up the entire time, but Deadpool shuts up a little less than Peter, which says something. Peter scolds him for killing and Deadpool calls him a pet name and things somehow evolved from that, because Deadpool found him later that night and gave him food and Peter didn’t object. In fact, he found his company fairly _enjoyable._

Now he’s on the roof of an office building with blood caking his suit. He hears a thud against the roof beside him and knows the sound immediately: cardboard, slightly damp.

“Hey, babycakes,” Wade greets him.

“Hi, Deadpool,” Peter says. He lets out a sigh and lays back against the hard roof. His spine hits the concrete and the sky is a little too bright, but his body aches and his muscles are too tired to keep him up. The smell of tacos wafts toward him and he audibly moans.

“Damn Webs, keep it PG for me. You know I’m kind of a perv.” He hears Wade settle on the edge of the rooftop next to him.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” Peter quips back. The muscles in his abdomen scream when he finally makes an effort to sit back up again, and his tailbone bruises against the roof. _Ouch._ He takes a moment to recenter himself, detach himself from his mysterious feelings of fatigue so he doesn’t ruin a good time. The sky is pretty tonight, he can’t ever see the stars, but there are some clouds in the sky that are tinged purple from the rapidly disappearing sunset.

A voice breaks him out of his swirling thought process. Thank god. 

“Oh, he’s in a sulky mood today… sulky, sulky, sulky smooth.”

Peter’s been beginning to notice the frequency at which Deadpool talks to himself. On missions, alone, during fights- it didn’t matter, it seems like there’s always a little conversation happening inside of his head that he needs to entertain. The list of odd things that Wade does is too long to list, and therefore too long to question. Instead, Peter tolerates his company and accepts the abnormalities as they appear. His hands flatten against the roof and slowly push himself upright until he can lean back against them and just _sit._

Something nudges his side. When he looks, Deadpool’s holding a taco for him in his outstretched hand. He’s looking at Peter in a way that doesn’t look like a lot, but _feels_ like a lot. Peter manages a small smile under the mask and takes the taco from thick leather gloves. Black and worn from use, with patches of discoloration from things Peter doesn’t even want to think about. The light hits them in a weird way that he doesn’t quite understand at first. He assumes he was hit in the head a little too hard, or he’s dissociating, but he takes another glance at Deadpool’s hands and realizes that he isn’t making it up.

“Woah, woah woah. Wait.” The taco is discarded beside Peter.

“Hey-- everything okay Spidey?” Wade’s got a mouthful of taco, but he looks high alert, like he’s getting ready to fight. The combination is comical. This is how he pictures Wade when he thinks of him- like 6 people crammed into one head.

“Calm down,” Peter says. “Can I like… touch you?”

Wade moves to answer immediately, but hesitates. “What’s going on?”

Peter’s hands stretch out in front of him. The first thing he does is slowly remove the taco from Wade’s grip. It falls out of his hands without any struggle. Wade carefully watches Peter, the white eyes of his mask fixed on his form like he’s afraid he’ll move too quickly and explode. Gloved hands meet gloved hands. Peter stretches open Wade’s fingers, slowly, gently.

He had seen correctly. Most of Wade’s fingers are broken. Some are bent near the knuckle, but there are multiple places where the finger is crooked in the middle of a stretch of bone. The leather of his gloves is thick, but he can still make out the different twists and turns of Wade’s hands. They look like tree roots, like a weird combination of organic and inorganic. Beautiful in a way, but really fucking gross at the same time. Peter winces.

“Is this all from the fight?” he asks. Wade himself just blinks down at where their hands connect. His face, usually comically expressive, looks blank. It should be intimidating, but instead it’s kind of innocent and puppy-looking.

He shrugs, and his voice is quieter than usual when he responds, but still flavored with his light tone. “I don’t really notice it anymore, it could be. Sometimes they break and they heal before I can get to them.” He curls his fingers a little bit, still cradled in Peter’s hands. Like it had been a while since he felt a soft touch.

Peter’s familiar with that. His healing factor is nothing compared to Wade’s, but he has strong memories of finally getting the time to examine his injuries after a long fight and realizing that his bones had already settled in incorrect spaces. The pain of breaking bones is horrible, but the pain of breaking them again _by yourself_ is incomparable. It doesn’t help that Peter’s still a little squeamish with injuries.

He notices that he’s still examining Wade’s hands with a strange intensity. And Wade’s still got that weird soft expression, focusing on where their hands touch. He doesn’t have the heart to let go quite yet.

“Do you… have anything else that needs to be fixed right now?”

The spell breaks. Wade’s eyes finally snap up back to his face, and he furrows his brows a little bit before saying, “Probably.” His large hands slowly remove himself from Peter’s and pat himself up and down his body, beginning with his collar bones and moving down his ribs. Peter can’t help but notice that it’s methodical, orderly. This is an entirely new side of Wade that he didn’t know existed.

After a moment, his hands still. “Just my fingies,” he reports, outstretching his hands in front of himself and carefully examining them. “A lot of them were broken in the past, so they’re fixed but still a little fucked up. One of them is dislocated though.” He looks kind of childlike-- too small and sweet to be the bloodthirsty mercenary that Peter knows him to be. It doesn’t register until a moment later that he’s seeing Deadpool as _endearing._

He doesn’t want to ask, but he feels so bad, and Peter’s a pushover, and quite honestly it seems like his entire life is one big situation that he didn’t want to get into. What’s one more? 

“Can I help?” He asks. He gestures Wade to put his hands in his again, and he doesn’t even hesitate to give them back. 

He knows which one it is when he tries to look for it. His right ring finger looked a little more loose than the rest, a little more lax. Peter glances up at Wade and moves to take the glove off.

Then suddenly, _motion._ Wade tenses completely and _rips_ his hand away from him. Damn his spidey sense, Peter reacts on instinct and pinches the tip of a gloved finger. The glove slides off.

Everything is still for a moment. The energy that Wade gives off is unreadable. Peter’s just holding the leather glove by the finger, somewhat frozen by the spidey sense humming in the back of his head. Low, persistent, but sharp as a blade. 

Wade moves to stand, but Peter’s faster, and grabs his exposed arm. He viciously tries to tug it out of his grip, but Peter’s stronger than he is. 

Now, Peter can see his skin. It’s textured and shiny and raw pink. Little hairs try (and fail) to poke through the epidermis, which is too mangled to allow passage. He has no cuticles, and his nails look too short, clipped for function. It looks beyond painful. 

Peter doesn’t let himself react. Instead, he looks at Wade right in the eyes. His stare is cold and animalistic and frightened, but Peter holds his gaze long enough to plead, “ _let me help you.”_ The air is vibrating with tension, but something in Wade deflates at his tone. 

He settles again, but Peter can still feel his muscles tensing, ready to flee if the dynamic shifts. Peter’s movements are slow; he takes Wade’s (gloveless) hand in his and waits a moment, just allowing himself to relax. Wade’s skin is inhumanly warm to the touch, just teetering on the edge of _too much._ Enhanced senses feel every sore, pockmark, scab. 

Deep breath. “Are you ready?” Peter asks. Wade still looks like he might bolt at any second, but he nods. Peter braces himself, grabs the digit in his hands, and _pops_ it back into the socket. 

The aftermath is anti-climactic. Wade doesn’t shout, wince, or even flinch when the finger is relocated, only wiggles it when it’s all done. Silence envelops them, the calming kind when the weight is lifted off of your shoulders and the breath can find its way back into your lungs. They’re still tense, but an unspoken bond is created, where they know that they can both trust each other, even if everything is unsaid, especially when it isn’t.

Deadpool finally breaks the silence just before it can become suffocating. “As far as second dates go, this isn’t the weirdest. I’m excited for the third, if you know what I mean,” he says and waggles his eyebrows.

Peter rolls his eyes under the mask. “Sure, DP,” he sighs, and gathers a few tacos into his hands. The rest of the evening isn’t as eventful, admittedly. Peter doesn’t think that’s an inherently bad thing.

2.

Time passes before they talk again. After their last encounter, Peter does actual research about Deadpool. There’s not a lot on the internet about him, but he has a few avid fans that have written blogs about him, treating him like an urban legend of sorts. Some hacking into secretive government databases gives him more information: Deadpool, unstable mercenary for hire, incalculable body count, skilled with almost every weapon there is. By all means, he should stay away.

Then again, there’s something intriguing about Deadpool-- Wade. It’s not adding up. He hasn’t talked to him many times, but from what he’s seen, he’s nothing like his reputation. Peter’s clearly missing something, and he doesn’t know what. He’s been feeling strange lately. Like he’s catching up to something but he’s always a step behind. Like the world is waiting on him.

The next time he meets him, he’s on a mission. 

He’d heard rumors over the last few months about a human trafficking network that specifically targets mutants. The ring was relatively small, but held a lot of power, and had slowly been growing in strength over the course of multiple months. The more he learns, the more he realizes that the ring is sourced locally and small enough to eliminate without causing too much drama.

His leads all take him here: a house on Staten Island. He’s been lingering a while to see if any movements are made, or if anyone enters or exits, and so far there’s nothing. It’s not particularly isolated or run-down, but it’s so naturally unassuming that he can’t help but feel suspicious of it. Funny what years of service as a vigilante will do to you.

At about 2:00 in the morning, Peter decides to make his first move. He’s got a bit of a routine established with stealth missions. It starts with reconnaissance and ends, for the most part, unpredictably. 

He crawls up the side of the building to peer into the windows. At first, he can’t see much, only darkness. Then, his eyes adjust. The interior is furnished nicely but covered in plastic, with a thin layer of dust clouding what lies beneath. It’s a weird combination of sterile and homey that makes the place feel haunted. 

A small amount of moonlight illuminates a hard wooden floor. It’s a small detail, but he can’t help but catch it: the toe of a shoe peeking out to the light. That’s all the confirmation that he needs. He’s doing some rough estimates on the amount of creeps that he should be fighting when he hears a stage-whisper from below.

Red and black against green grass. Deadpool’s waving hysterically.

Peter freezes. Reconnaissance, then next step would be a quiet break-in to get the mutants out with as little confrontation as possible. That was _not_ a possibility with Deadpool here. 

He takes one last look in the window before dropping down to the grass again and making a point to shush Deadpool before he even starts talking. Deadpool nods knowingly and brings his voice down to a much more manageable volume. When he speaks quietly, Wade’s voice is gravelly and deeper than usual. It sounds nice. Peter tries not to think about it too much. 

“Spidey! I didn’t think you did this kind of stuff. I was about to have a little self-care time, but now that I think about it, there’s no one else that I’d want here more than you,” he purrs. Peter imagines he’s batting his eyelashes and tries to ignore the idea that DP kills _for fun._

“Listen,” Peter starts. “I don’t know what kind of weird stuff you’re into, but there are captives in there that need our help, so if you’re helping, I need you to keep the collateral to a minimum.” He doesn’t mean to be mean, but he knows he has to be thorough.

Wade agrees instantaneously. “How about this, you be on civilian duty and I’ll take care of uh…” he pauses and smirks. “the works. The captives will know who you are, so they’re more likely to listen to you, _and_ I can still have my _me time_.”

Peter’s reluctant. He knows they need to have the ‘no killing’ talk soon, but he’s not sure where their boundaries lie, and how much he’s allowed to step on his toes. So he sighs out a “ _sure”,_ and tries not to blame himself for what Wade’s about to do.

He’s waiting outside the same window when he hears the first gunshot ring through the building. His blood runs ice cold ( _Ben Ben god please Ben just stay with me)_ but manages to break the window and slide through while he knows the baddies are distracted.

The room he falls into is large, but otherwise empty apart from the captives. There are seven of them. Four of them are teenagers, and Peter can tell just from observing them that they are already permanently burdened from the roles they’ve had to assume. There are two children, one seemingly about six years old and the other a little older, maybe nine. There’s only one adult. They all look terrified.

It’s fairly easy to get them all out after that. He drops in and shushes them, and together they listen to the fighting that Deadpool’s doing downstairs. The little kids get their ears covered for most of it, and neither of them object. When the house finally stills, he guides the mutants down the stairs, (telling them not to look at the gore) and outside the building. He calls 911, arranges for the police to meet them at a convenience store nearby. They cry and hold each other and hug Peter. He memorizes their names and he learns that some of them have _families_ to go back to and it’s times like these where the difficulties of his job seem minuscule compared to the rewards.

The walk back is quiet. The bad nights feel explosive, when he comes home to his apartment and all he can feel is regret, but the successful nights sometimes age to become… hollow.

He meets Wade back at the house once he knows that the group is safe. He’s sitting on the steps of its porch with his katanas beside him staining the white painted wood they’re resting on. Like he was waiting for him. He’s holding his arm weirdly-- kind of stiff, not straight, but not bent either.

“How’s it going?” Peter asks tentatively before sitting beside him.

“They put up a solid fight for a whole bunch of fucking weenies,” Deadpool pouts. 

He finds himself chuckling at that. “Yeah, they were some huge fucking weenies,” he agrees, finally letting himself relax against the old wooden steps. 

Closer, he can see Deadpool’s arm better. His forearm is bent somewhat close to the wrist and it juts out at an angle from the rest of his arm. It’s enough to make anyone cringe.

Peter blinks. A part of him wonders if this is something that he should allow himself to get used to. “Your arm’s broken as hell,” he tells him, and his voice is shockingly calm. He guesses that he’s trying a little too hard to be cool about it.

“Yeah.” Deadpool wiggles his fingers around a little bit. He doesn’t look like he’s in that much pain, only fascinated by the abnormality that is a compound fracture. It’s deeply unsettling.

Peter doesn’t want to ask to help, but he does anyways, because he’s only got one arm and it can’t be easy to fix that without two hands. Superheroes are supposed to be chivalrous, right? 

“Do you uh… need a hand with that?”

Deadpool shrugs, but scoots a bit closer to Peter all the same, offering him his arm. Peter reaches out tentatively, and grabs it with soft hands. He feels along the bone, gently, and he doesn’t need enhanced senses to find exactly where it splinters. 

“You ready?” he asks. Deadpool gives a small nod. 

His grip tightens, and then… he hesitates. A beat passes where he’s just gripping Deadpool’s arm without any motion, staring at it as if willpower alone could put bone back into place. 

“Everything okay?” Wade asks.

Peter nods instantaneously. “Yeah, yeah, it’s good,” he assures. It sounds empty.

Wade frowns. “What’s the big deal? Just snap me like a glow-stick.”

A glowstick. _Crack._ The thought makes Peter feel a bit woozy, but he doesn’t let himself show it. 

“Won’t that, like, hurt you though?”

“You’re gonna hurt me. Just get it over with. I’m a big boy,” he assures. It doesn’t make Peter feel any better.

He inhales, then exhales, then takes his arm into his hands tighter. His knuckles go a little bit white, he applies pressure, _gets it over with,_ and eventually he hears the forced _crack_ of bone moving back into place. Wade doesn’t even flinch, just lets out a long breath after it’s done like he just got home from a normal but overbearing day of work. He takes a second to admire his newly straightened arm, but quickly moves on to gazing at the sky above them.

“You’re like, kind of a freak,” Peter says, in a way that he hopes comes across as impressed.

Something in Deadpool's masked expression shifts self-deprecatingly. “Yeah, I am, aren’t I?” 

Peter knows it’s rhetorical and dramatic and he can’t bring it upon himself to care. “Do you wanna go get some food or something?”

Three times is a pattern. He knows this. Deadpool got him food the first and the second times, and he could have just left it at that. A coincidence, a fluke. But something inside of him is telling him that things don’t have to be like that, not this time. He does his best to listen. Anyone with that high of a pain tolerance needs more people to talk to. So what’s the harm in it?

Deadpool says yes. 

3.

Wade squirms on the sofa next to Peter. The TV’s on and it’s dark out, but he can still sense the tension in his muscles, the stiffness in the air. He feels fidgety and anxious and he thinks if he were to listen closely he would be able to hear muscle growing, so he’s concentrating _really hard_ on the hum of the TV.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do for you?” Peter asks for about the sixth time.

Wade shakes his head, tapping out a frantic rhythm into the cushion he’s resting on. “No. no no, it’s okay. I just have to wait out the worst of it. No way to un-cut off your leg.”

Eyes drift to where Wade’s leg sticks out of his blanket. It’s barely even reached the edge of the couch yet.

“I’ve got like… off-brand Clif bars,” Peter offers. “Would protein help with the muscle regeneration?”

Wade snorts a little but doesn’t reply, just slowly tips his head back towards the ceiling.

“How bad does it hurt?” Peter asks. He can see Wade shrug a little bit from the corner of his eye.

Wade has an incredibly high pain tolerance. He’s learned early on that it was almost _unusual_ for Wade to show that he was in pain. He would complain that his healing factor was inconvenient and whine for hours about the wind changing, but he never spoke about pain. Seeing him unable to keep still was hard to watch. 

“It’s less of a hurt, and more of an itch,” He replies. “Like restless leg syndrome, but also it hurts.” Peter winces and tries not to overwhelm his friend with sympathy and problem solving. _Maybe if you didn’t place yourself directly into harm’s way, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if you didn’t treat yourself as something expendable, you wouldn’t get hurt. I know it’s crazy._

He simply swallows and allows himself to turn and look. The leg isn’t quite as gory as it used to be, and Peter feels himself sigh in relief. It’s beginning to resemble a mild amputation, and he can point out the shape of a foot forming now. _God, his life is so goddamn weird._

He allows himself to unfocus, preoccupies himself with finding any sympathetic stories he could tell to take Wade’s mind off of his leg. And then he remembers something long gone. There’s a moment when he aches, but then it’s just sweet and funny and nice. He wants Wade to have some. He mentally stutters a bit before he asks. 

“This seems like… weird. But just trust me,” he prefaces.

Wade already seems distracted. But then again, Wade isn’t necessarily a difficult person to distract.

“Can you lay down?” Peter asks. 

Wade snorts. “Huh?”

“The long way. Put your leg up.” 

Wade furrows his brows slightly through his mask,. “You want me to lay down, on a sofa, that we’re both sitting on. You wanna be on top, or…?”

“Shut up,” Peter rolls his eyes. “Just do it.”

Wade makes a face through the mask.

(Because he never takes it off, Peter’s becoming shockingly good at deciphering the way Deadpool emotes through the mask. He’s been told the same thing happens with him).

But then he nods slightly, slowly, and maneuvers himself horizontally, swatting Peter’s hand away when he tries to help.

They’ve got a system for touching now. Usually they don’t ask; it’s too formal but intimate at the same time and it makes Peter uncomfortable. 

_“Communication turns you off? That explains a lot,” Wade huffed once during one of their rooftop chats. Peter groaned._

He starts gently, just lightly places his hands on the soft grey sweatpants Wade’s wearing. Wade is warm, no, _hot_ . His body heat seeps through the fabric and it feels like he’s going to burn himself. Then he slowly, _carefully,_ rolls up the pant leg on the regrowing leg. Wade just watches him with quiet curiosity. 

His skin is soft to the touch. Not quite mottled with scars yet, but not of a normal texture. It’s abnormally smooth right now, lacking the natural blemishes and spots of real human skin.

Then he adds pressure. The muscle is tight and stiff. He almost chuckles when he realizes how weird and sexy the situation would be if Wade’s leg didn’t resemble a toddler’s. It’s a turn-off, for sure. He starts in circular motions, working some tenderness into the new flesh.

Wade’s face twitches with the beginnings of a wince, and he jerks his knee up for just a moment before relaxing a little bit more. His brows furrow slightly, and he starts to open his mouth to ask Peter something when he interrupts him.

“Tell me if it hurts too bad, okay? I won’t call you a pussy or anything for having a fallible pain tolerance.” Wade doesn’t reply, just breathes and stares. 

“You know, also, just because you can get hurt and be okay doesn’t mean that you should. I mean, I’m among the most self-sacrificial bastards out there, so I can’t blame you, but…” he allows himself to trail off, unaware if he’d crossed a boundary. 

“Why are you doing this?” Wade asks suddenly. 

Peter freezes. “To make you feel better. My, uh, aunt would do this when I had growing pains as a teenager-“

“Yeah, why are _you_ doing this?” he asks again. “Why are you helping me?”

His hands still for a moment. _Why was he doing this?_ Surely every part of his scientific brain should understand that canoodling with mercenaries can’t be a good idea. That every minute he spends with Wade, he puts himself in more danger. That someone’s bound to end up hurt, and it won’t be Deadpool. 

Wade’s so open and closed at the same time, he realizes. He talks about the voices in his head but everything’s a joke and being so dishonestly candid is the only coping mechanism he seems to have. Today he feels raw. 

But then he looks at Wade and realizes his muscles are stiffened up and something unreadable is happening on his face and he doesn’t want him to bolt out of this. 

“Because who else will buy me tacos,” he says in reply, and he knows it doesn’t sound as ambivalent as he wants. Goddamnit. Peter “communication turns him off” Parker at it again. He wishes he could say anything more but he can’t. “Superhero friends are hard to come about these days.”

Wade smiles just a little at the word _friend_. And then he says, “okay,” and Peter goes back to massaging his leg, where baby toes are beginning to emerge. 

Tacos become a weekly thing after that.   
  





The couches in Wade’s apartment are suede, and just a little bit too soft. Peter doesn’t like it. 

He shifts in his seat again and allows himself to look at Wade. Full suit, sprawled over the couch, with a bullet hole in the side of his mask. 

Peter’s seen blood before. But he didn’t know it could still bother him that much. 

He sits and he waits for him to wake up. Because he would wake up, he keeps reminding himself. He always wakes up. 

5.

Wade bails on him. 

Which never happens. Not ever. They’d hung out in really odd, post-battle scenarios. They’d given each other stitches before. They’d said nothing to each other and watched Golden Girls together for hours. But Wade never bailed. 

Peter rereads the text on his phone a few times before it sinks in. It’s simple, just “ _gonna have to pass on today. i’ll see u next time.”_ There’s no emojis, which he can only assume is a bad sign. Wade is an emoji dependent man.

He replies the first thing that comes to mind. “ _Are you on a job?”_ Wade doesn’t take mercenary gigs as often anymore, but he’s trying to fill in the blanks as best he can. 

The reply comes a few minutes later. “ _no.”_

_“u outta town?”_

_“no.”_

Peter sighs to himself. “ _should i be worried?”_ he asks. 

“ _probably consistently”._

Peter groans. Vagueness was also not a good sign. Wade was usually telling him everything, he was even eager to share what he was doing at any given moment. He doesn’t expect danger, but a part of Peter starts to fill with dread when he imagines what Deadpool might have gotten himself into. 

He picks up a party box at taco bell. It’s a risky move, but it’s one that he feels obligated to take. Wade problems are Big Problems and Peter wants to help the best he can. 

He cracks his window quietly, but loud enough that he was sure Wade could hear it if he were here. The last thing he wants to do is freak Wade out right now, for multiple reasons. 

The apartment’s dark. Almost black. He can make his way around with his enhanced senses, but not without difficulty. Wade’s place is difficult to navigate in the first place; it’s perpetually messy and the furniture gets moved around a lot, so he’s happy he has the crutch of superpowers to lean on. When he finds the living room’s clear, the first thing he does is turn the lights on. Sure enough, small piles of dirty laundry litter the floor, and a pizza box is on the coffee table in his living room. 

_“Have you no desire for the air in your apartment to be breathable?” Peter asks one day when dishes in Wade’s sink last week are… still in his sink. He doesn’t bother getting close to the mess to spare his enhanced senses from the odor that’s suffocating him from across the room._

_“Ehhh… nah,” Wade replies, and neither argues nor provides evidence for his own point._

Wade’s in his bed when he finds him. He’s not on his phone or watching TV, he’s just curled up with his silk sheets _everywhere._ Other than his breathing, he’s completely motionless. It’s unsettling in a way that surprises Peter- he never knew how restless Wade was until he was still. 

“Hey Wade,” he says softly. The danger of what he’s gotten himself into is finally sinking in. Wade is his friend, sure, but he’s unpredictable on a good day. “I brought you some food?” He stays at the doorway and lingers.

Wade doesn’t show any signs of acknowledgement. His eyes stay closed and his breathing stays at the same rate- shallow, but not asleep, Peter knows asleep. 

“Wade, I’m not gonna ask any questions, but if you need anything I’m around, okay?” He turns to give him some space, but Wade doesn’t give him the opportunity. 

“Why are you here?” He’s gravelly and rough, even harsh. 

Peter furrows his brows. “I just wanted to check up on you,” he says. “It’s not like you to stay home, so I wanted to see if you were okay—“

Wade interrupts. “It’s not your _fucking job_ to see if I’m okay.”

It’s not the meanest thing he’s heard Wade say, but it stings _way_ more than Peter anticipated. 

“I, uh, I know it’s not, but—“

“No buts. You and your fucking hero types, you’re no different from the rest,” he scowls. “You just want to do everything for the motherfucking ego boost. Just to prove that you’re good enough to be an Avenger. Like they all aren’t arrogant, elitist pricks. Everyone who saves the world _once_ believes that it’s their job to _do the right thing._ Except when the right thing helps anyone but them-fucking-selves.”

A beat passes where all Peter can do is absorb. He knows Wade doesn’t mean it, hopes he doesn’t mean it, but damn. Wade’s _right_ about his criticism of the Avengers, and that’s the worst part about it. Peter knows for a fact that their wealth and power had changed them. He just didn’t think that also applied to himself. 

Peter takes a deep breath and continues. “Wade, let me help you. Can you at least look at me?”

“No,” Wade says, without hesitation. 

“Are you kidding me, Wade? Are we gonna be adults here or what?” Peter can’t help but allow the exasperated tone to seep into his voice. 

“No,” Wade repeats, firmer. 

Peter sighs. He moves to walk out of the room, but turns over his shoulder last minute. “You’re fucking ridiculous, I hope you know that,” he says, and he can hear his aunt in his tone. 

“No!” Wade shouts, and the tension explodes. The room feels like it’s about to teeter off of a cliff. 

“ _Really_?” Peter hisses. 

“No! No. Listen. I can’t fucking look at you.” A moment passes where the heaviness in the room becomes almost unbearable, and Peter has to clench his jaw to keep his mind straight. 

Wade sighs. “It’s my skin, you prick, okay? It’s fucking killing me today. So yeah, I’m so sorry that moving feels like I’m about to tear into two goddamn pieces.” 

Beat. Peter feels himself take a deep breath. This is what _honesty_ looks like on Deadpool. He knows he should like it more than he actually does. 

“Wade, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have intruded and that’s on me.” Wade huffs a little in response.

Peter tries to decide whether or not to leave, but he finds himself walking into the room before he reaches a decision. “Can I do anything to help you?” His hands automatically reach for the lamp next to Wade’s bed.

“Stop! Stop, Jesus, stop. You don’t want to see this,” Wade grunts. “I’m not exactly a sight for sore eyes.”

It’s stupid, but retrospectively, he doesn’t regret it. For once in his life his brain stops and it feels okay. Like the world isn’t waiting on him this time, like he’s finally caught up instead. 

Peter reaches up to his neck, tugs the mask off of his head, and throws it in the space on the floor that’s illuminated from the hall light. The red stands out against the drab carpet. Wade’s breathing stops. 

“Trust is a mutual exchange,” he offers. “Can I turn the lights on now?”

Wade’s silent for a moment before he says, real quiet, “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Peter tells him. And he does. 

“Okay.”

He does. The lamp turns on with a little _click_ and an orange glow fills the room. They lock eyes first. Wade’s eyes are honest to god, baby blue. He can make out his textured skin in his periphery, and then he looks. And it’s bad, for sure. But it’s nothing like he thought it would be. Peter can make out the details of what his old face would have looked like and it makes him unbelievably sad. 

“My name’s Peter,” he tells him. Real soft. 

He repeats it back to him. Real soft. His lips barely move around his name, and the sounds of his mouth overpower the words, but something shifts in Wade’s eyes and he can only imagine the lifetime of nicknames he’s subjecting himself to. He likes how his name looks on his lips. 

“I was going to tell you soon anyways,” Peter admits. 

“You’re beautiful,” Wade whispers. 

Peter just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

“No, really.”

He can’t touch Wade, he knows it would hurt him, but Peter realizes how close he wants to be with him. And it makes sense. And he’s okay with it. 

Plus one:

Thud. Everything goes white. A flash of pain that Peter can’t quite place radiates everywhere and seems like it tears him in half. He hears noise but can’t quite place where it’s coming from- is his hearing fucked up? He groans on purpose this time just to assess the damage and he can feel his ribs ache with the motion, can hear his voice but he sounds underwater. 

_Stand_ , something inside him says. But when he moves to sit up, his palm presses against the concrete and he feels something in his middle twist and pop. White again. 

His body slumps against the street, limp on the unforgiving asphalt. He knows by now that the adrenaline is still in his system, and he shouldn’t be hurting this badly so soon. Everything is dialed to eleven but it’s fuzzy at the same time and Biology Peter is no longer around to explain why. Something instinctive tells him to take shallow breaths and he merely complies in an attempt to ignore the screaming of his ribs.

He squints his eyes shut. His own hands travel down his body and feel directly under him. They come away warm and soaked. For a moment he just stares at his own hands, taking in the glossy dark covering his fingers, and then his brain finally supplies, _that’s your own fucking blood, stupid._

He blinks and when he opens his eyes again he feels different. He can’t quite focus his eyes, and all he can think about is the flip phone in his suit’s hidden pocket. 

The feeling of urgency won’t last. He finds the pocket in his suit with ease, opens the flip phone, and allows muscle memory to take over. The phone rings once before he picks up.

 _“Heyyy baby!”_ The voice is booming, even through the crackly signal. _“To what do I owe the pleasure? Seems like I’m always the one doing the calling around here…”_

“I’m sorry,” Peter apologizes without a second thought. He repeats it a second time in the same tone, “I’m sorry,” before realizing that he didn’t call to apologize. That he wasn’t even particularly sure why he was apologizing in the first place. People don’t apologize to Wade enough.

 _“It’s okay?”_ Wade says. Peter can almost see him now: his spine straightening from the hunch that he usually adopts when they hang out, his muscles tensing from paranoia. Wade’s intuition is never wrong, and it’s like he can sense danger. People never give him credit for his intellect, and Peter’s starting to get unusually emotional about it when he’s torn from his thoughts by a voice. _That’s right. Wade._

 _“Spidey? What’s going on?”_ He’s got the scary Deadpool voice on.

“Wade,” He replies, because it’s all he knows right now. 

Wade understands. He always does. _“Where are you, baby boy? I’m on my way.”_

He thinks for a second, tries to look around. The alley that he’s in is boring and nondescript, but neon lights from nearby stores are staining the alley red, reflecting off of the water on the pavement. It must have rained recently. “Near the sub shop, near you,” Peter slurs, and the concentration’s wiped him. “You owe me one,” he comments. He knows that it’s a joke but isn’t thinking about how it’s funny, only that the syllables sound kind of weird in his mouth. 

_“I’m on my way Petey, hang tight,”_ Wade tells him. _“Guess you do have a few favors to cash in, huh? I got one more for you. Can you keep talking to me? Just for me? Keep talking, darling.”_

Peter blinks. “Chilly,” he comments. Words aren’t coming easy. He feels as if he’s got twenty or so words and phrases going through his brain and nothing else. 

There’s a little pause before Wade asks, _“You chilly, baby?”_ and Peter makes a little noise of affirmation into the receiver. “Chilly, warm, wet pavement.” 

Wade curses something filthy, but tries to keep it out of his voice. If Peter were any more cognizant, he would have noticed that he absolutely could _not_ keep it out of his voice. _“I’m almost there sweet cheeks,”_ he laughs nervously. _“Just stay awake, ol’ DP is gonna take real good care of you. Just need you to not go to sleep.”_

Peter nods to himself, alone in the alleyway. The tone Deadpool is using is making him really want to do what he says. He’s got a nice voice. It’s real scratchy but soft at the same time, and apparently he says so out loud because Wade thanks him a moment later.

Peter’s still talking when he spots Deadpool for the first time, sprinting into the alleyway. He’s not exactly sure what he’s saying, but he can feel his mouth moving. It only stops when Wade crouches down next to him. He completely invades his personal space, but Peter doesn’t have it left in him to care. Personal space was for Old Spidey.

“Shit,” Wade curses. “Baby, what did you get yourself into?” Peter barely answers, just nods in agreement and does a kind of _shit sucks_ half shrug before wincing. He feels warm, large hands slip under his back and legs and he actually closes his eyes at the heat. It seeps into the spandex and is the nicest thing he’s felt in a while.

But then hands lift up and suddenly it’s no longer nice. His attempt to muffle a shout is unsuccessful. He wants to writhe and scream but he chooses instead to push his head into Wade’s chest, to try to focus on the hard pressure of muscle against his forehead to distract himself from the pain. (It doesn’t work.) His ribs are on _fire_ and it feels like his body keeps moving in the worst possible ways.

This time, Wade’s the one who’s babbling. “You know Spidey, shit- I’ve seen a lot of bad stuff, like _exploded body parts_ bad stuff, but you’re looking pretty bad. We’re gonna need to fix you up, like, yesterday. Baby boy, you’re supposed to be all PG, this is not PG-” and Peter finds this is a far better way to preoccupy himself from the hurt. Wade’s voice sounds through his whole chest, and the rumble feels nice against his head. He’s warm, too. Science Peter wanted to know if it was because of his healing factor, because there’s no way he was just _that warm-_

“Petey? Fuck, say something, please-” and yeah, he forgot that he also had responsibility in this clusterfuck he’d gotten into. He hums against Wade’s chest and says, “ouch.”

Wade breathes a sigh of relief so large that it jostles him a little bit. “Ouch, huh. Sounds about right. Soon we’re gonna get you good as new, don’t you worry.” Suddenly he’s being shifted a little and it gets darker, the air becomes a little bit more stale. His brain supplies _taxi_ before he can get too confused about the change.

Peter listens to Wade rumble an address at the driver. The buzz in his chest gets a little bit too loud when he put his ear right against the suit, so Peter elects instead to rest his temple against Wade’s shoulder, let himself relax a little bit now that he knows he’s safe. He feels droopy. Like if Wade wasn’t holding him the way he was, he’d spill all over him like a melted ice cream cone. 

Wade can tell. His grip tightens a little bit and he starts to tap on Peter’s leg to gently rouse him. He reminds him to stay awake and Peter doesn’t wanna hear it, he’s so damn comfortable against him like this, but he doesn’t want to disobey either. _“‘Know,”_ he stresses in reply, and tries to put as much attitude as he can into one word. He can’t quite make it sound angry, though. 

Deadpool chuckles a little. “If you _know_ , then fuckin’ do it, you twerp. You look like you’re gettin’ awful cozy.” 

Peter starts to sass him back, but chokes on a breath when his ribs protest the movement. He’s forced to exhale, but then he doesn’t have enough air, and his chest tightens with panic on its own accord. His own body is making him claustrophobic and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt anything quite like this before. His vision dots black around the edges and Peter does everything in his power to even his breaths, as if by sheer willpower he could prevent himself from passing out.

Distantly he hears Wade wince, and then he notices that he’s gripping him like a lifeline. _Super strength, sorry._ He can’t apologize verbally right now but hopes that the look he sends him through the mask with suffice for the time being.

“Hey, hey. Baby.” The hands that hold Peter against Wade move, grazing his sides in feather-light touches, perfectly missing his ribs. He knows the sensation would be overwhelmingly pleasant if he weren’t in so much pain right now. “It’s okay. You need to calm down. I know deep breaths hurt right now and I’m sorry. Little shallow ones, you’ve got this.” Peter’s confidence builds minutely and he can manage just enough focus to begin to adjust his breaths.

“I’m so proud of you,” Wade says and now he can feel the warm touches on his side. Peter is so tired, but then Wade chimes in again. “We’re almost home, we’re gonna get out of the car and go right upstairs so daddy can take care of you. You ready, Spidey?” He gives a tired nod and presses his face back into his shoulder to try to stay awake.

The door opens and the air is colder than he remembers, having gotten used to the heated stuffy air of the taxi cab. It makes Wade feel hotter. He somehow opens the door despite Peter occupying both of his arms, and Wade does his best not to jostle Peter as they climb the flight of stairs to Wade’s apartment. His ribs ache ache _ache_ , but he’s too tired to show it. Distantly, he can recognize Wade commenting on his weight and how he’s far too easy to carry.

Key. Lock. Doorknob. Open, close. Step, step step, and then he’s being set on Wade’s couch, the better smelling one. Wade hurries to his bathroom and comes back with the first aid kit that Peter bought him. It still hasn’t been used. Peter’s going to comment on that later. He allows his head to roll back and finds himself examining the stains on Wade’s ceiling: mostly brown and circular where some water had built up, but with some splatters of rusty brown that had been poorly wiped up on the adjacent wall. Thinking about it makes him sad, so he moves to hold his head up again and finds he’s struggling more than he should be.

He hears Wade begin to settle with the first aid kit. Gentle hands, too gentle for a man of his size, pick up Peter’s head and place a pillow behind it so he’s not looking at the ceiling anymore. Ever so observant, never given any credit for it. He’s still got his mask on, but he’s peering up at him from the floor with an expression he can only describe as afraid, and he thinks about the people who label Wade as a sociopath without even talking to him. The man cares, and he cares thoroughly and without abandon. Anyone who couldn’t see that was undeserving of him. Everyone was undeserving of him.

Wade takes off his gloves and begins to examine Peter with soft textured hands. Wade slowly takes off the mask, working hesitantly so as not to startle Peter. The suit can breathe pretty well, but the fresh (ish) air feels delightful. First, he stares into his eyes and watches how his irises move, a little glazed over and lazy. Then he checks his head for contusions, and moves down his body with precision and order that comes from experience. It’s quick, but it’s not rushed. 

He moves back to the first aid kit next, and produces a large bottle of prescription pain medication which Peter naturally assumes hasn’t been acquired legally. Right now, he really doesn’t care. He can see Wade now, and he can tell even from far away that his hands are shaking as he opens the bottle. He pours a handful out and Peter opens his mouth before Wade asks him to, swallows them with water that Wade gives him immediately after. He feels the pain lessen close to immediately, and the sigh that he lets out is involuntary.

“Peter? Hey darling, you’re bleeding a lot from a stabby kind of wound, and I’m gonna have to stitch it up, which means we have to take off your suit. Is that okay?”

Peter’s so overwhelmed with affection for this man and so tired that he feels like he could yell. He’s not used to being asked or warned about people taking off his clothes for medical reasons, and it’s always been something that he’s not okay with. He’s gonna have to complement Wade a _lot_ when he’s feeling better. He gives him a nod and Wade wastes no time, immediately peeling off his suit and using a knife in places that he feels the need to. RIP to the suit. 

The towel that he uses to clean the wound is cold. Peter gasps when it’s pressed to him, party because of the temperature and partly because _ow._ Wade winces and murmurs a soft “Fuck, I’m sorry Pete,” and continues to mop up the blood. He set the towel down beside Peter a moment later and produces a needle from the first aid kit. Peter knows how this part goes and he _hates_ this part.

Wade disinfects and threads the needle with practiced speed. Then he straightens and reaches for Peter and looks at him, silently asking _are you ready_ and Peter nods in response. He closes his eyes and waits or the prick of the needle, and waits and waits, but it doesn’t come. When he looks back at Wade, he’s frozen. He’s eyeing the wound with intensity, hands hovering over the gash, but he can’t move.

“Wha’s wrong.” Peter slurs. The pills Wade gave him are definitely making him feel a little loopy.

Wade immediately shakes his head. “Nothin’s wrong baby, you’re gonna be fine. Don’t worry, I’m gonna make you better,” but he doesn’t move from where he’s frozen. He keeps looking back and forth from Peter’s face to all the blood and his movements are growing a little frantic.

Peter’s hand slowly reaches out, grabs the top of Wade’s mask, and yanks. It comes off pretty easily to reveal Wade, eyes wide with fear. Peter’s jaw sets.

“What’s wrong.” Firmer this time.

Wade’s hand clenches into a fist. He presses it into the humid cushions of the couch and squints his eyes shut, allowing emotion to briefly take over . “What if I hurt you?” he asks, and Wade’s always been so expressive, Peter thinks that he can point out every thing he’s feeling on his face like he’s labelling a map. It hurts and then it doesn’t, because he grabs Wade’s hand in his and watches his eyes, makes sure he knows he’s being brutally honest when he confesses, “You could never.”

Wade blinks something away. They hold their gaze for a moment longer and it’s like the air is finally open. There’s tension, but it’s a new kind, a non-threatening kind. 

And then Wade says, “Please just pass out now so I can get to work.” It’s a tone that Peter recognizes again, and the familiarity is welcoming. He allows himself to fall into the darkness, slowly at first, and then all at once.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to the beautiful song titled Cradle by Adrianne Lenker. Please, give it a listen if you aren't familiar with her or the song. It portrays the tenderness and casual intimacy that I tried to capture in this fic.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Art] Cradle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22740595) by [Nonexistenz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonexistenz/pseuds/Nonexistenz)




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